It may be true, there is no rest for the weary. For every moment is sacred. The impact today on a little child’s life tomorrow has no measuring tape long enough. In eternity’s light, it streams on and on, beyond what we can see, touching who we can’t know. May our razor thin space mark well the ongoing legacy of Jesus in God’s eternal timeline.

“No rest for the weary,” mom sighed.

She bent down to pick up muddy boots and move them off the kitchen floor where they lay on their rubber sides, shells without spirits. She carried them out the back door and set them outside on cement steps marked by clumps of wet dirt.

We cook, clean, we work jobs, we nurse babies and kiss scabbed knees, and in the middle of it all we sometimes forget the role most sacred.

Where do all the prayers of a mother go?

Are they left to float in cyberspace with her last breath?

Do they bury into caked ground when her time on earth is finished?

My Mom, with her never-ending job of feeding, cleaning and caring, had no idea how much greater, bigger and wider her impact would be than the menial weariness of daily tasks. She couldn’t have possibly fathomed all the lives she influenced, multiplied in years to come and generations unborn.

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